In a way, Sam thought to himself, this was his friend’s last meal.
It was just the two of them – Sam and his pal J, as everyone called him. They were parked in Sam’s VW in a lot at the Adult Correctional Institutions. J was minutes from going inside to be put back in prison for a parole violation.
On the way over, the two had gone through a Burger King drive-thru, and now on this sunny summer day, they were about to have that final meal.
It was an unusual pairing. Sam had grown up on the East Side while J was raised in a Providence project. But addiction doesn’t discriminate, so their paths crossed when both ended up in the same Cranston sober house.
About 10 people were living there, just men, which is usually how it goes – it’s all one or the other. There were a couple of younger kids in their 20s and some older middle-aged ones. Sam and J were in the middle, both in their 30s, and they bonded over that.
J was a big guy, African American, maybe 6-foot-2 with the build of a linebacker, but friendly and polite. He’d come to the house six months before as a first step out of prison. That’s all Sam knew, since you usually don’t ask. It’s not like anyone’s hiding it, but, as people say in the community, we all know how to do drugs, or drink – we’re here to focus on how to stop.
That morning, the talk in the house had been about J. He hadn’t come home the night before, and when that happens in a sober house, everyone assumes the worst. It’s also a rule violation and can get you kicked out.
J at last showed up, sitting in the house manager’s room to explain what happened. Sam wasn’t too far away in the kitchen and could hear the conversation.
Apparently, J had been to his court-ordered drug rehab class and had gotten into it over something stupid. He’d given a cigarette to someone, which you’re not supposed to do – hand out nicotine products. The instructor called J out, and J pushed back, causing a big enough scene to get him reported, which got his parole revoked. Or something like that – Sam didn’t hear every word.
Knowing what he was facing, J had spent the night with his girlfriend and now was here to get his stuff together before figuring out how to get transportation to the prison.
A moment later, J walked into the kitchen. It was just him and Sam.
“Yo,” said Sam, “I’m not doing anything today. If you need a ride, I got you.”
J was grateful – that would be a big help. He brought his stuff to the basement in garbage bags for his girlfriend to pick up, and the two got into Sam’s car.
It was around noon, so Sam asked J if he’d had lunch.
“No, yeah, I haven’t eaten, that sounds good,” said J. He still had an hour. They were on Pontiac Avenue by then, so Sam pulled into the drive-thru of the Burger King there. He ordered a Rodeo Burger and Chicken Fries with a Coke for himself; J got a Whopper Meal.
Sam insisted on paying.
“I only had $100 to my name,” Sam would say later, “but his day was about to get a whole lot worse than mine.”
The ACI complex is a confusing campus, but J knew where to go. They pulled into a parking spot 20 feet from where he had to turn himself in.
It seemed like J wanted a final 10 minutes of normalcy, so it was mostly small talk as they ate, Sam telling J not to worry about his stuff – he’d help the girlfriend when she came to pick it up.
At one point, J said he had no idea how long he’d be in – whether he’d do just a week or a year.
Sam was stunned by that – a year? But he sensed J didn’t want to go down that hole too deep, so Sam just told him it would work out. J seemed to prefer that his last moments of freedom be about two pals having a Burger King lunch together.
Then it was time.
“Yo,” J said, “I just got a new memory foam mattress topper a week ago. If you want it, it’s all yours.”
Sam was grateful for that – the sober house twin mattresses were thin.
“Aw, dude,” said Sam, “that’s huge.”
J turned to Sam, and instead of a handshake, they did a hand-slap, the way guys that age do as a sign of connection.
Through the rear-view mirror, Sam watched J go through the prison intake door.
Then he headed back to the sober house, noticing folks going about their normal summer day, unaware of the hidden struggles around them.
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